Pickup Lines
by The Grynne
Summary: [AU] Lane and Paris hit the road. Sort of.


**Pick-up Lines**

This is it?

Okay, what's wrong with it?

Nothing. It's a station wagon.

My cousin Ailie's. She runs a veterinary clinic in New Haven.

I was just about to say something about the smell. Plus there's the whole sign on the doors.

Camouflage. You said you needed a car so your mother wouldn't be able to hunt you down, "even if she stopped every train and bus in the country", I remember were your words.

Wow, you heard me say that to Rory?

I was nauseous and doubled up in agony, yes. Insensate, no. The bathroom floor helped your voice carry.

My pitch does get a little high when I beg.

If I wasn't too busy vomiting up Sookie's cheesy cheese-filled cheesecake I would have given it a ten in dramatic.

Go for the lactose-free Pavlova next time.

I think I will.

And thanks for doing this.

Get in and smell the cat pee first.

* * *

You've been, right? Going to the school you did, or do — being the sort of person that you are. 

Did someone just take their finger off the pause button? And that was an insult just there. Don't think I didn't notice, Sailor Moon.

Yep. You've probably, definitely been there. More than once.

Okay, where? The Washington Memorial? The Bodleian? Cuban cocktail bar where Ernest Hemingway passed out vacant-eyed against the wall?

Um. No, Paris.

The first two, yes. Good times. The Cuban bar, I was five blocks away when nanny dragged me back to the hotel because she thought I was going to catch hepatitis. I told her I was avoiding all uncooked food and unwashed males, but would she stop it with the GPS tracking device?

Paris!

What?

Just…forget it. Keep watching the road.

Don't change the subject.

I said forget it.

I don't make a habit of answering personal questions to friends of friends, but you can't just make sidelong comments about my upbringing and then tell me to drop it. The chronically repressed starts externalising, there's no holding it back.

Friends of friends? I'm elevated. I'm touched.

Not doing your cause any favours.

I figured lobbying was way too obvious to someone as immune to flattery as you.

I'll keep that subversive tactic in mind for the next time I have tea in the White House. Been where?

No.

Where?

Why didn't I listen to the warnings? You're like a piranha. Or an alligator. One whiff of blood and you've grabbed my whole leg. Both legs. Fats Domino is singing me to my muddy grave.

Want me to kick you out onto the side of the road with no coat? You can walk to California. An itinerant musician with only your guitar.

I'm a drummer. I drum – an instrument not easily slung around strapped to a backpack. I'd take it as a favour if you don't.

So you can't even busk. Better stay on my good side then. Been where?

Oh, look. A kangaroo.

Nice try. And I mean "nice" as in, your sad efforts are futile.

Look. A sickle-waving horde of men in kilts.

Uh oh. It's not Paris, France is it?

Hmmphhh.

I feel so let down.

* * *

What's the weather like over there? 

I though we agreed to drop that subject fifty miles back.

No, not Paris. Where we're going.

I could care less.

I just want an idea of what to expect.

Right. Because breaking up is hard to do when it's foggy.

Don't say that!

What would you prefer? Dumped? Discretely dropped? He was clever I'll give him that. But those words over a cross-continental phone line were a big clue.

You heard our phone conversation too?

You mumble in your sleep.

I do?

Actually, no. When I wasn't lunging for the toilet bowl I heard Rory make her rare "Bring It On" reference and made the natural assumptions. Your reaction told me the rest.

Oh.

What does the weather have to do with it?

I just want to know, is my first sight of him going to be shirted and jacketed, making it rock in some damp, dingy third world basement? Or is he going to be holding faux cocktails – shirt_less_ – with his arm around an orange girl in a swimsuit/sarong ensemble? If it's going to be the second one I'd appreciate fair warning.

Someone has been watching way too much crappy network television.

Those girls can dress, I'll give them that.

Fashionably vapid, you mean.

Please God, let it be some non blasphemous group recreational activity per Rygalski so when my mother sees through my feeble lie and wrings every detail of the story out of me, she won't be able to say: "Lane! See what happens when boys go living the life of the so-called free spirit away from protective influences."

One lesson that you'll never learn.

Thankfully.

Most thankfully.

So you think it's going to be sunny?

Not that I'd stake my life or any number of my future-born children on outpourings of the meteorological department – but California, August? I think uniformly warm is the mild way of putting it. You're just gonna have to deal with the sun.

And the swimsuits?

More scantily clad groupies than you can stuff length-wise into a moderately priced dorm room. Between there and the poolside with the Pacific view, it's a wonder they have time at all for school.

I _can_ take it you know.

Would I have said that if I thought you couldn't take it?

Seriously?

* * *

When we're done beating up your ex— 

Verbally abusing.

…done verbally abusing your ex-boyfriend whom you never actually had sex with—

Our relationship was greater than us. Selfless. We made music that was way better than love.

Ew. Rein it in, Cher.

Sorry.

Let's say we don't immediately drive back. Take in some sights. Let the foot loose on the pedal.

This is not a road trip, Paris.

Your words, not mine.

I'll be out of clean clothes.

All part of the experience. Or so the common word is. You've already got a head start; you've practically lived on diner food for a year. Besides, you owe me.

There something you'd like to tell me about before we go any further? A warrant on your head, maybe?

I just don't want to end my college years having been deprived of the single most quintessential and pointless American ritual of young-adulthood. It's crazy. Popular culture has hardwired the impulses into my head, and if I'm going to discover who I really am as a person and all that I have to first get rid of that impulse.

Is that a line from "The Real World"?

I wouldn't know, but I doubt it somehow.

Phew. Because, you know, zero tolerance for lip synching.

I respect that.

All right. It's a yes.

Yes?

Yes. But a week, tops. I get to pick the radio stations.

Done. And if at any time I start turning into a Britney you have my permission to kill me.

Noted and agreed.

* * *

Just to clarify. Who was the genius who forgot they were in charge of filling the spare container of gas? 

This isn't happening.

Our vet-mobile begs to differ.

* * *

Hey, same to you dickwad! 

They can't hear you.

Why do you suppose I was yelling?

That went not at all well. Where are the friendly provincial apple-pickers in their handy pick-up truck when you need them?

They're all the same.

Meaning what exactly?

If there was just one of us, we'd have been at the nearest filling station an hour ago. Two of us, they feel threatened.

Those guys were afraid of the oestrogen brigade?

Precisely. Plus, two bodies are harder to dispose of.

Well that's morbid.

I've got an idea. But you won't like it.

* * *

You amaze me. 

Why thank you.

Who knew that underneath there was such a devious mind, lurking.

Okay, watch it, Yoko.

Admit it, all this time you've been looking for your chance to re-enact the lesbian action you caught on MTV. This entire road trip is just an excuse.

How would you know what was on MTV?

Well, um… Let's both forget we each said anything.

* * *

All right. Car coming. 

I'm not hearing anything. Oh no, wait. Now I can. Give me a sec.

C'mon c'mon, get ready.

Okay.

Low-ride jeans?

Check.

Suggestive strawberry flavoured lollipops?

Cola. Mmmm. 'heck.

Ready to make with the girl on girl hair flippage?

_So_ going to owe me big time.

The End


End file.
